


my best friends and enemies

by motheyes



Series: i wish this was canon (fix it fics) [2]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: "idk guys i like tommy but he's not one of my faves" i say, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dave | Technoblade and Wilbur Soot and TommyInnit are Siblings, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Happy Ending, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, It Fails Nobody Dies, Pain, References to Depression, Sad TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, TommyInnit Angst (Video Blogging RPF), TommyInnit Misses Toby Smith | Tubbo, a twist on all the suicidal!tommy fics i've been seeing recently, this one hurt to write lads, writing this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:14:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27952940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/motheyes/pseuds/motheyes
Summary: There are so many stars, he thinks. Each one must be hundreds of millions of blocks away, beyond any human's reach.He wonders if they're lonely up there, separated from each other by an unspeakably giant empty space.(He doesn't notice he's crying until the water hits his hand.)Or: Tommy doesn't cope well with his exile.
Relationships: Dave | Technoblade & TommyInnit, Dave | Technoblade & Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit & Phil Watson, No Romantic Relationship(s), TommyInnit & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit, theyre family your honor
Series: i wish this was canon (fix it fics) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2133021
Comments: 43
Kudos: 1047
Collections: Completed stories I've read





	my best friends and enemies

**Author's Note:**

> usual disclaimer: this is about the characters from the roleplay on the smp, not about the actual people!! if i learn this violates boundaries it's getting yeeted. i'm assuming that suicidal tommy stuff is okay because they're going that direction in canon.
> 
> another disclaimer: i wrote this based off of my own experiences with mental illness. i've done my best to not glorify suicide in any way. it's written from tommy's perspective, so he glorifies it in his own head, but he is thoroughly proven wrong by the end of the story. that being said, please take care of yourselves if this kind of thing is triggering to you!!
> 
> title is from "i'm sorry boris" by wilbur soot.
> 
> this was a fucking trip to write. i hope you enjoy <3
> 
> (edit 12/9/20: this has fucking popped off, and i'd just like to say thank you all so much. everyone who's commented, kudosed, bookmarked - you all mean the world to me. thank you again, seriously <33333)

The portal warbles behind him. It's only a few feet away, but it sounds like it's a hundred, muffled and distant.

(His friends are only a few feet away, too.)

The endless fires of the Nether crackle, layered over the grunts of zombified piglins and the soft plop-plop-plop of magma cubes.

A ghast cries in the distance.

Tommy can't bring himself to care, though, not as he stares over the edge into the lava below.

It's far, far down, but he can still pick out the popping bubbles and the shifting textures if he stares long enough. Orange and red and black swirl around on its surface in a giant, transfixing kaleidoscope. 

If he didn't know it was hot, burning rock, it would almost look soft and cushiony.

If he didn't know his feet were firmly planted on the ledge, he could almost feel himself falling headfirst.

A hand lands on his shoulder roughly, and he snaps out of it, gaze whipping up to meet Dream's dumb smiley-face mask.

"C'mon, Tommy," Dream says. "It's not your time to die." His tone is awfully indifferent.

Tommy stares at him. If he listens hard enough, deludes himself hard enough, he can make out the sounds of talking and laughing on the other side of the portal.

He steps away, but his eyes linger back towards the inviting lava below.

"It's never my time to die."

* * *

It's a long time before anything happens. Tommy spends that time perched on a little natural ledge nearby, the Netherrack digging into his hands and thighs through his gloves and jeans.

Dream doesn't say another word after their conversation. Tommy's perfectly fine with that; Dream's his worst fucking enemy right now. The last thing he wants is to banter with him.

(It's still awfully quiet. Tommy wonders what everyone else is up to. He wonders what the decorations look like.)

Tommy hisses as Netherrack breaks through the skin on his finger, blood welling to the top of the cut. He stares at it for a second before shaking the pain off and sticking the offending finger in his mouth.

Dream looks at him.

"The fuck are you staring at?" Tommy scowls, and Dream is just opening his mouth to respond when Wilbur - Ghostbur - _whatever_ \- comes tumbling back through the portal.

"Hello!" he chirps, seemingly unaware of the tension in the air.

Wilbur looks happy, Tommy notes. His cheeks are a darker grey than the rest of him, and Tommy supposes that's his version of a pleased flush, considering the wide smile across his pale face.

Tommy scowls deeper.

Dream sighs, and then says, "hello, Wilbur," in that same infuriatingly calm tone. "I suppose you two can get back to Logtown alright?"

"We can. And, it's _called_ Logsteadshire," Tommy corrects. Dream shrugs.

"Okay. Whatever."

"The fuck do you mean whatever?" Tommy's standing, now, fists clenched at his side.

Dream ignores him. "If you know the route, then my work here is done. Bye, Wilbur. Bye, Tommy."

With that he turns and disappears through the portal.

"Always gotta have the final _fucking_ word, huh, you bitch?" Tommy doesn't realize he's yelling until Ghostbur puts a light hand on his shoulder.

"It's alright, Tommy!" He's still fucking smiling. "Let's just go home."

Tommy eyes him, and then shakes his hand off his shoulder, stalking deeper into the Nether.

Wilbur lags behind him.

* * *

It takes a bit for the weight of it all to set in.

After the exile itself, Tommy had Wilbur following him out of the country. He had Techno dropping in to gloat. He had Dream coming by to keep him in line. 

He'd fallen asleep on that first night half-expecting to wake up to find Tubbo in the bed next to him, like they used to do in Pogtopia.

The loneliness only really starts to creep up on him in the Nether on that second day. Even then, though, he'd managed to paint over it with anger as he stormed home, ignoring his brother as Ghostbur cheerfully pointed out every tiny interesting thing on the way back.

The second night, though, that's when it starts to hurt.

Tommy can't sleep.

After what must be an hour, maybe two, of laying stock-still in Tnret, he gives up and crawls out of bed. He takes Chirp with him on his way out.

Bad had given it to him. It's not Cat, which is locked away in an inaccessible ender chest, and it's not Mellohi, which is still under Tubbo's custody, but it's something.

He doesn't even have a jukebox to play it on. He doesn't even have a single fucking diamond to make one. All he can do it hold it and trace its grooves as he stares up into the infinite night sky.

The only light pollution comes from the few torches placed around Logsteadshire, where Ghostbur... sits? Tommy's not sure if he sleeps or not. It's dark enough out here to see everything.

There are so many stars, he thinks. Each one must be hundreds of millions of blocks away, beyond any human's reach.

He wonders if they're lonely up there, separated from each other by an unspeakably giant empty space.

(He doesn't notice he's crying until the water hits his hand.)

* * *

Music is the first thing Tommy hears when he wakes up.

Grass tickles his face and arms, and he realizes that he must've drifted off in the field, his fingers still clutched around Chirp.

In the distance, he can hear a soft guitar.

Groaning, Tommy slowly gets to his feet. Everything hurts - his back, his neck, his head. The sleep didn't do him any good. He's still exhausted.

He doesn't want to lie back down, though, so Chirp goes back in its chest and Tommy goes to investigate the noise.

Predictably, it turns out to be Wilbur. He must’ve gotten his guitar back from his sewer-house in New L'Manburg, because Tommy can see its strings through his transparent hands as he strums up a tune - G, B, C, G again.

After a few moments, Wilbur looks up, registering that Tommy’s watching him. “Good morning,” he says, smiling still. (Does he ever stop smiling?)

“Hey, Will.” Tommy’s voice is noticeably dull, even to himself. He doesn’t particularly care.

Wilbur pats the ground next to him. “C’mon, sit with me!”

Tommy complies, and Wilbur goes back to playing. From the moment he sings the first couple words, Tommy recognizes it. It’s one of the first songs Wilbur ever wrote, back before… everything.

Hearing it flings Tommy back to when Wilbur played it for him for the first time, just for a moment. It feels like decades ago, now; no L'Manburg, no discs, no SMP.

It’s nice.

And then the song’s over, and Wilbur’s doing a silly little mock bow where he still sits, and Tommy lets himself smile. Just for a moment.

“You sounded nice,” he compliments.

Ghostbur beams. “Thanks!” He takes the capo off the neck of the guitar, tucking it into one of his pockets. “I’ve been practicing. Had a lot of time, recently."

Tommy falls silent, at that. Without the music, Logsteadshire falls silent, too.

“Wilbur?”

“Yeah, Toms?”

“How are you so happy?”

Wilbur blinks and taps his chin, clearly thinking about it. “I don’t know,” he says, after a long moment. For the first time in what must be days, the smile falls from his face for just a second. “I just am! Don’t have to worry about territory disputes or winning elections or - or anything else.”

He takes a shaky breath, in and out. On the exhale, the slight glitches and stutters that have started to run through his form cease.

“So, yeah,” he finishes, grinning at Tommy once again. “Just got time to hang out with my little brother and practice my guitar.”

“...Thanks, Wilbur.”

“Of course! Wanna hear another one?”

“...That would be nice.”

* * *

Ghostbur takes yet another trip to new L'Manburg, and yet again, Tommy is left behind.

This time, he doesn’t even bother following. He doesn’t want to deal with Dream babysitting him like he’s a fucking _child_.

(He knows Tubbo doesn’t want to see him, anyway. He is very well aware of that; there’s no reason for him to sneak into new L'Manburg.)

Instead, he lays out in the field between Tnret and Logsteadshire, looking out over the sea.

The waves lap against the shore, and the slight breeze sends the scent of salt up Tommy’s nostrils. It’s peaceful and quiet.

Tommy hates it. His eyes trace the sea foam.

In all honesty, he should be doing something more productive. They only just barely have enough iron for armor. They still don’t have diamonds.

For some reason, though, he can’t bring himself to move, no matter how much the silence presses down on him, makes him feel hopeless.

The sun hangs low in the horizon, ready to go to sleep with the rest of the world. It was high overhead when Ghostbur left. Tommy wonders what’s taking him so long.

Well, he doesn’t really have to wonder at all, does he? Wilbur’s clearly taking his sweet time, probably visiting Phil and Tubbo, probably catching up on everything he’s missed while he’s stuck out here with Tommy.

Tommy’s fingers clench in the grass. Stubbornly, he blinks away the water rising in his eyes.

 _C’mon, big man_ , he tells himself. _No pity parties. You’ll beat Dream’s ass and then you’ll be allowed back in, and it’ll be fine._

The first person you have to convince in an argument is yourself, after all.

The sun’s dying rays shine off the water, dappled red-orange-yellow against dark blue. Tommy wishes he could listen to Mellohi.

He gets up and goes to bed instead, eyes staring up at his makeshift wool ceiling as the sky goes dark outside.

When he hears the portal vwoop hours later, Wilbur’s light footsteps approaching his tent, he closes his eyes and pretends to sleep.

* * *

By the time the sun’s coming up again, Tommy deems it safe enough to come out. He still hasn’t really slept, kept awake by the pangs of white-hot jealousy running through his entire being. The bags under his eyes almost hurt; he hates getting up, but he hates the sight of his tent roof even more.

He peeks his head into Logsteadshire, but Wilbur’s not there. Confused, Tommy looks around for a moment, before his eyes land on a familiar figure sitting on the beach.

It turns out that Wilbur’s fishing, hands clutched around a makeshift fishing rod, a bucket of cod at his side.

He hums a “good morning” as Tommy approaches, and Tommy hums back.

“Figured I’d catch breakfast!” Ghostbur says, steamrolling over the awkward pauses left in the conversation by Tommy. “Fundy’s been asking to go fishing recently, and this is a perfect opportunity to practice.”

Behind Wilbur’s back, Tommy frowns.

“Cool,” he responds, trying his best to keep the jealous bite out of his voice. He fails. Ghostbur doesn’t mention it anyway.

“I figure one or two more should be enough,” he muses, glancing up at Tommy briefly. “Then we can cook ‘em over the campfire! It’ll be fun.”

“Yeah.”

Wilbur still doesn’t falter. “Oh! By the way, I have a gift for you. I think you’ll like it.”

Now, _that_ , that catches Tommy’s interest.

“What is it?” he asks, and Ghostbur laughs, carefree and happy.

“You’ll have to wait and see! It’s good though, I promise.”

The rest of Wilbur’s fishing is long and tedious, something that’s only amplified by Tommy’s antsiness to figure out what his brother’s present is. He hadn’t remembered that it took this long to catch a single fish; the last time he’d gone on a fishing trip with Phil had been years ago.

Eventually, though, Wilbur deems the cod in the bucket to be plenty enough, and he stands in one fluid motion. It takes him a couple tries to scoop the bucket handle up, his thin hand phasing through it once or twice. He gets it eventually, though, and then he and Tommy are headed back to their little log home.

Tommy’s given the task of skinning and deboning the fish, and he does so mechanically. It’s been a while since he last ate seafood, but he still remembers the process like the back of his hand; Phil’s farm was on the beach too, after all.

The fish sizzle on the rocks next to the fire. Tommy stares at them for a moment, before turning his gaze up to Wilbur, who’s rummaging through one of his chests.

“Aha!” Ghostbur says, pulling something out. “Got it.” He hands it to Tommy.

The gift turns out to be a picture of a Christmas tree. it’s not just any tree, though; Tommy recognizes the background. It’s a Christmas tree built on the lake that the Community House stands on.

“Oh,” he says. He holds it delicately, like the slightest touch will crumple and break the picture. His legs feel weak, and he blinks back the beginning of the tears trying to creep their way out of his eyes.

Ghostbur holds something else out. “That’s not all!”

The other thing is a compass. When Tommy squints at it closer, he can just barely see the purple shine of an enchantment.

“That’s connected to a lodestone next to Tubbo’s ender chest,” Wilbur says, “so that you’ll always know where he is, no matter where you are.”

Tommy sniffs. That’s apparently all that he needs to let the tears start flowing. His hand clenches around the compass; it points to somewhere vaguely to his right.

“D’you like it?”

Tommy looks up at Wilbur with doe eyes.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, Will. Thank you.”

* * *

The next week or so seems to pass in a blur. Tommy goes mining, when he feels like it. He eats, when he feels like it. He sleeps, when he’s able to. All three of those are probably sparser than they should be, but Tommy doesn’t care, and if Ghostbur notices, he doesn’t comment on it. 

Nobody else comes by.

The picture gets pinned precariously to Tnret’s wall; the compass goes in his new ender chest, right next to Cat and Chirp.

He thinks a lot. He has nothing but time to think, now; when he’s stripmining, when he’s catching food, when he’s trying to sleep, there’s nothing to occupy him except his own thoughts.

Wilbur has been awfully nice, recently. The thought comes to him one day when he’s deep in the mines, looking for as much iron as he can carry. Well, he supposes it’s _Ghostbur_ more-so than _Wilbur_ \- Ghostbur himself insists on the difference between them. 

Obviously, Ghostbur doesn’t have any of the paranoid mania that Wilbur, Alivebur, had been characterized by in the last few months of his life. More than that, though, he seems truly happy, in a way that Tommy hasn’t seen from him since they moved into the DreamSMP together. Hell, he hasn’t really seen him like this since even before that, since Technoblade left their childhood home.

Tommy remembers how Wilbur was before the election, before their first exile from L'Manburg. His shoulders had always been tight, like there was an indescribable pressure weighing them down. He’d never had his guitar out; it had been left hanging on the wall in the Camarvan, slowly going more and more out of tune.

Now, though, Ghostbur is calmer. he’s kinder. He doesn’t snap like Alivebur occasionally used to, even before the election. Tommy can hear him playing soft, sweet music more days than not.

Tommy wonders if death is happier than life.

Then, he blinks, shaking his hand out like it’ll shake the thought out of his head, and he goes back to chipping away stone.

(The idea slowly sinks into his brain, though, popping up when he has nothing else to think about.)

* * *

Tommy’s not sure when he realizes that he’s lost everything.

Theoretically, he realizes that on day one of exile, when he goes to reach for an axe to cut down a tree and remembers that he doesn’t even have that.

It doesn’t fully register for a while, though. In hindsight, he thinks he might have been too preoccupied with the menial tasks needed to survive to notice fully.

He notices when it starts to weigh on him, though.

Tommy’d said goodnight to Ghostbur hours ago, leaving his older brother to his own devices in Logsteadshire. (He’s still not sure what Wilbur does during the night, actually; he’d asked, once, but Wilbur hadn’t really given him a conclusive answer.)

As per usual, though, he finds himself unable to sleep.

It’s getting incredibly frustrating, at this point. His head is full of fog during the day, making him move and think and act slow, but by the time he lays down, he can’t close his eyes for more than a couple seconds.

He’s not even restless, either; instead, it’s like he’s too tired to sleep, which is stupid, and ridiculous, and Tommy hates it.

Groaning, he rolls over, burying one cheek into his pillow. His eyes land on the outline of the picture hanging on the tent wall; it’s too dark to see it, but he still knows exactly what it looks like after hours spent staring at it, longing for home.

He wonders if he’ll ever see the Christmas tree in person.

It’s almost two weeks into his exile, now, and he’s only just found his first pieces of ancient debris. His progress is slow and grinding, and there’s so much he has to do to even stand a _chance_ against Dream in a fight. 

A shaky breath escapes his lungs. He’s definitely not going to make it back into new L'Manburg until the new year, at least.

He might not make it back to new L'Manburg _ever_.

That revelation brings such a sudden crushing wave of _despair_ and _hopelessness_ crashing over him that he doesn’t even realize he’s crying until he feels the tears drip down the side of his face.

 _No, no, no._ He buries the entirety of his face into his pillow, now, squeezing his eyes thought and willing the emotion to go away. It’s fine. He’ll destroy Dream somehow and then Tubbo will be allowed to un-exile him, and it’ll be _fine_.

A little traitorous voice in the back of his head whispers, _what if?_

He’s making progress! It’s slow but it’s _progress,_ and besides, he doesn’t _have_ to beat Dream in a fair fight, he can just - use something for leverage. It’s worked in the past and it can work again.

 _“I don’t give a fuck about spirit,”_ Dream had said. 

Tommy’s hands come up to grip his hair, and he lets out a sob into the pillow. Why is he fucking crying, why is he letting this get to him? He’s been up against unbeatable odds before, and he’s always come out swinging on the other side. Why is this any different?

 _It’s cos you don’t have Tubbo anymore,_ that voice says. Tommy shoves his hands between his face and his pillow, pressing his fingers into his eyes.

Just like that, all the emotion of the last two weeks comes flooding back to him. 

He remembers the pain of being exiled and the pain of watching Tubbo’s face disappear as he was escorted away through the obsidian walls. He remembers the loneliness he felt standing on the edge of the Netherrack.

The walls of the tent feel like they’re caving in around Tommy, the air hot and stuffy and _suffocating_. He kicks his blanket off, and that’s a bit better, but it’s still claustrophobic inside the tiny, tiny tent, and so he claws his way through the canvas door, collapsing on the grass outside.

He curls his knees up to his chest, hugging them as close as possible. His breaths come fast and dizzying, and he _won’t stop fucking crying_. Faintly, he wonders why he’s like this, why all he can do is cry.

And then, just as quickly as it came, it’s gone again. He can feel the cold December air biting against his wet cheeks, can feel the chill of the ground through his jeans.

Tommy uncurls his body, wiping the tears from his face.

He doesn’t feel anything. It’s like his body’s expelled all its emotion in one fell swoop, and now he’s left with nothing, his head just a hollow shell. He feels like he’s a million miles away, like he’s watching himself from a third-person point of view.

His fingers clench in the grass below him. Now that it’s gone, he can’t help but feel stupid for having freaked out like that. He’s fine. Everything’s fine. Things could always be worse; he could be dead, like Ghostbur, who’s holed up only a couple dozen blocks away in Logsteadshire. 

Although… Tommy laughs, harsh and unkind, rubbing his palms into his eyes. At least Ghostbur is happy, in death.

He doesn’t dismiss the thought off-hand, this time. Instead, he wonders what it must be like, not having to worry about the discs.

Ghostbur’s allowed back in New L'Manburg, even though he was the one to burn it to the ground.

Tommy could... he realizes that he’s on his final life. He’s not going to, to do anything, but he _could._

With that morbid thought, he lets himself flop down on the ground. He doesn’t want to go back into his tent, but he’s too tired to do anything other than lie down, right now.

The stars shine overhead.

* * *

Those thoughts don’t leave Tommy’s head for a long while. Now that he’s put them into words, it’s like he’s cursed with them, like he’s not allowed to have a break.

He has a good day or two, of course, like the day that Phil visits to say hello and offers to take Tommy on a trip to do something cool. That was nice, even if Wilbur was extra spacey for a while afterwards.

He also has his bad days, though.

Dream drops by to gloat in his face on what he thinks is a Tuesday, and his internal monologue is just a constant scream of _I could do it._ Tommy’s forced to throw all his newly-crafted armor, including the diamond chestplate, into a pit of lava.

“At least he didn’t find the Netherite sword?” Wilbur says as Dream leaves. He still sounds so over-the-top cheerful.

Tommy just sighs, and resolves himself to redoing all his hard work. His whole body is sore from constant mining and lack of sleep.

* * *

Tommy’s desperately trying to sew a patch onto one of his many identical shirts when Ghostbur pokes his head into Tnret. 

“I’m going on a trip!”

Tommy blinks. “Where?” he asks.

“The SMP! it’s Christmas,” Ghostbur chirps, and Tommy feels his heart drop into his stomach. He hadn’t remembered the date. “I’ll be back in a bit!”

Wilbur lets the tent door swing closed, and Tommy hears his footsteps recede, followed by a loud _vwoosh_ of the portal. He tries to go back to his sewing, but it’s no avail; it only takes a few mistakes, a few stabs to his thumb for him to throw the whole project down in frustration.

He slides out of the tent, stalking down to the seaside. When the sound of the waves overtakes the sound of the portal, he finally plops down in the sand.

The resentment in Tommy’s gut rolls in time with the waves lapping the shore. One reaches his feet, freezing-cold, and he pulls his legs in with a curse.

He’d forgotten it was Christmas. The last few weeks have blurred together into one giant sludge labeled Post-Exile in his head, and he hasn’t been keeping track of the days as they fly past him. 

He probably would have forgotten the entire day, if Wilbur hadn’t reminded him. And, maybe it’s stupid of Tommy to be angry for missing out on something he wasn’t going to do anyway, but that doesn’t mean he’s not angry.

His older brother’s probably with the rest of their family in New L'Manburg, right about now. They’re probably sitting around the Christmas tree and Prime-knows what other decorations that Tommy hasn’t seen, eating the special food that Niki only cooks for special occasions.

Tommy rests his head on his knees, and he stares out over the ocean, salty tears starting to roll down his face.

He’s fucking crying again. It seems like all he does these days is just cry, cry, cry, these fits of sadness spaced out by a pitch-black emotional void.

He wants to punch something and scream, but all there is to hit is sand and his voice would get swallowed by the sea. 

They’re probably happy without him.

That realization comes to him suddenly, all at once, but he realizes it’s true. Wilbur looks happy every time he comes out of the Nether portal. Phil and Techno seem to be doing fine, every time Tommy’s seen them. Even Dream only really comes by for the satisfaction of gloating at him in his self-made exile.

Nobody else ever visits. It’s like, now that Tommy is exiled, he’s just vanished off the face of the Earth.

He’s so _fucking lonely._

And that, that loneliness means that people are glad to see him gone. That means that his exile was probably his fault, was probably inevitable - he’s always been the Problem Child, hasn’t he? He can’t even admit that to himself without being a whiny little bitch about it, throwing a sobfest for himself because he can’t attend a Christmas party.

He’s alone, and it’s his own fucking fault!

Tommy angrily scrubs the tears from his face, wavering as he stands.

The waves lap against his feet again. This time, he doesn’t move back.

That little chorus in the back of his head is here, again. He can hear it, whispering _you’re on your last life. You’re basically on your way out anyway._

Tommy looks behind him, at the shitty little tent he’s made and the log house that Wilbur’s built, and he thinks, _this is my legacy._ He’s an outcast over discs that don’t matter to anyone but him. He’s the founder of a nation that’s exiled him twice. His friends and family want him gone or _dead_.

 _“I’ll always be on your side,”_ Tubbo had said, once upon a time.

Tommy looks ahead of him, to the sea. The water’s cold and dark and steady.

It’s all fucking bullshit. If he weren’t so much of a coward, he could just… do it.

Everything’s quiet except for the rushing of the waves.

This time, Tommy comes to the water.

It creeps over his toes, and then his ankles, and then it’s halfway up his calves and he’s shivering. He probably should have worn a coat or something, anything better than just a t-shirt and jeans. Not that it matters, now.

That thought brings just a bit of joy, the first true happiness he’s felt in weeks. _It doesn’t fucking matter anymore._

His fingertips brush the surface. They recoil instinctively at the chill, the salt water burning the pinprick wounds on his thumb, but Tommy steadies his shaking hand and pushes himself further in.

When the water’s at his elbows, a particularly tall wave hits him directly in the chest, and he goes tumbling down under the surface.

Even if he’d had a chance to take a breath before he went under, it would have been punched out of him with how cold the water is. His legs are mostly numb to it now, but his chest and face are another story entirely.

He stares up at the surface, light filtering through the saltwater, and he doesn’t get up from the sea floor. It’s beautiful, even if the salt and sand burn his retinas.

His lungs start to ache, and he lets his eyes flutter shut.

A part of him always thought that he’d go out with a bang, be it metaphorical or literal. This is nothing like that; it’s soft and slow as he finally can’t hold his breath any longer, as he starts to choke-

-and then something grabs his arm, and then his head breaks the surface, and then someone thumps his back and he’s hacking up water.

“What the fuck,” he wheezes, flailing against the firm grip holding him in place. He’s over this person’s shoulder, and all he can see is red cloth and pink hair, and - oh.

“I should be asking you that,” Techno says, and his voice is higher pitched than usual and slightly shrill. _Oh._

Techno sets him down on solid ground, slowly and carefully, and Tommy’s knees almost immediately lock up and give out, sending him down into the sand. Techno catches him, and helps him the rest of the way down.

“Holy shit, Tommy,” a worried voice says, and then Phil’s familiar face enters Tommy’s vision, hovering over him. “Are you okay?” 

“Fine,” Tommy gasps. His teeth knock together, and he can barely speak with how cold he is. “I-I’m fi-ine.”

“Bullshit,” Wilbur pipes in, and oh, he’s there too, standing off to the side. He looks even paler than usual. He’s not smiling.

Something warm and soft lands on Tommy’s shoulders, and instinctively, he grasps at it, his fingers sinking deep into the fluffy white collar. It’s Techno’s cape.

Phil looks up, presumably at Techno, and then focuses back down on Tommy. “Let’s get you inside.”

He’s helped up by Phil, this time, and he leans heavily on his dad’s shoulder, one wing curled around him protectively. Techno’s striking a fire by the time Tommy manages to limp through the door, which is held open for him by Wilbur.

Gently, Phil sets him down next to the fire, the beginnings of the smoke just starting to curl up and out of the chimney.

Tommy huddles further into Techno’s cape.

Once his teeth stop chattering so much, once his jaw stops clenching and unclenching erratically, he coughs. “Hey, guys.”

Nobody says anything.

Tommy looks up at Phil, cranes his neck to see Techno and Wilbur standing side to side.

“It’s uh - it’s long time no see,” he tries.

“Tommy,” Phil says, and he sounds _serious_. “Are you alright?”

Tommy doesn’t meet his eyes. “I’m sitting right here, aren’t I, big man?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

There’s a long beat in which Tommy tries to find something to say, the right mix of words that won’t worry his family but won’t be an outright lie, either.

He fails, and shrugs instead.

“Tommy,” Phil says again, and suddenly he’s _at Tommy’s side_ , hand laid gently on his shoulder. Tommy half expects to get yelled at or scolded, but instead, Phil pulls him into a hug.

He dissolves almost immediately. Phil’s arms are warm and steady, and they speak of a comfort that he hasn’t felt in a long, long time. His dad’s wings wrap around him, too, shielding him from the outside world.

There’s a rustling sound, and then there’s a cold hand on his, a raspy breath in his ear. It’s Wilbur - he’s not as steady as Phil, more shaky and undefined in every sense of the word, but he’s _here_.

A hooved hand lands in his hair, ruffling it, and usually he’d protest, but he can’t bring himself to do that right now, not when he’s still reeling from this all. Techno doesn’t join the group hug, but he sits, leaning against Tommy’s back, a silent promise of protection.

Tommy feels grounded and weighted and _real_ in a way that he hasn’t felt since the last time he sat on his wooden bench overlooking the sunset.

He could sit here on this log floor forever.

“If you want to talk about it - we’re here,” Phil says. Tommy feels it more than he hears it, lets the deep rumble of Phil’s voice resonate in his chest. “And if not - that’s okay too.”

“We’re… worried about you,” Techno chips in. He’s never been the best at the emotional shit, but he sounds sincere and steady all the same. “Wanna make sure you’re alright, kid.”

Wilbur nods, his hair brushing against Tommy’s cheek.

Tommy does his best to breathe, in and out, but he chokes on an inhale and then his words are spilling out of him, his soul laid bare on the wooden floor.

"I’m just… so tired," he starts, and when nobody interrupts him he presses on. "I've been fighting for so fucking long, and it never feels like it makes a difference, and all it seems to do is make things _worse_ when it should be making them better."

Phil squeezes him, just a bit. Tommy's not done talking.

"We fought so that we could be free and look where that fucking got us after the election. And then we fought again, and now we're _here_. And I didn't… I don't have Tubbo, anymore, and I didn't think I had you guys, and… I don't know."

He shrugs. "I'm just tired. I'm tired and I just want to fucking rest."

He nudges Ghostbur, who jumps ever so slightly. "You seemed so happy, Will," he says. His brother goes even paler, the wood behind him ever-more visible.

Something dampens Tommy's shoulder. Phil's crying, he realizes. Tommy doesn't know why; if anyone here should be emotional about this, it should be him, but all he feels is a slight shake to his hands, a slight swoop to his stomach.

"I'm sorry," he says. He doesn't want his family to shed tears over him.

"Tommy, no," Phil says back, pulling away to stare Tommy in the eyes, his hands on his shoulders. "Don't you dare apologize."

Tommy frowns, and goes to protest, but Phil cuts him off before he can get a word out.

"You're - you're not in the wrong, here. You're right that you shouldn't have to fight. but, Tommy, that doesn't mean that the only way out is _death_." Phil chokes on his words, but he keeps going, hands gripped tight to Tommy's shoulders. "I'm - I'm so sorry that you got to a point where you felt like that. I’m sorry I didn't do anything sooner."

Phil's apology shocks Tommy, to say the least. He flounders for a second, his wide eyes staring up at his dad's face, which is drawn and serious and purely genuine.

Then, Techno sighs, his back bumping against Tommy's. "I know I've made a violent clown of myself. I'm… working on it, though. and I don't - I never _wanted_ you to be Theseus."

Tommy doesn't quite whip around in disbelief, but it's a close thing. That's a pure, genuine Technoblade apology, short and sweet.

He leans more of his weight against Techno. "It's alright, big man."

Ghostbur takes a rattling breath.

"I’m not - I'm not just happy," he cuts in, his voice faint and echoey. "I'm happy at the cost of everything else." he smiles; it's not joyful, though, not like usual. he seems oddly grounded, despite the way that he's nearly invisible with how transparent he is. "I don't remember most of… anything. I don't remember huge chunks of my own life. I might not even remember this later."

He knocks his head against Tommy's shoulder, and it feels weird and fuzzy against Tommy's skin. "I'm sorry I gave you the impression otherwise."

Tommy swallows past the lump in his throat. "Fellas I - I don't know what to say," he admits.

"You don't have to say anything." Phil brings him back into a hug, his hand cradling the back of Tommy's head. "We love you. We love you so much, Tommy, and I'm going to do my goddamned best to fix things like I should have done a long time ago."

Faintly, Tommy feels Techno and Wilbur nodding at his sides.

He cries, and this time, it's not from despair or loneliness or overwhelming panic. Those things still rest in his heart, but they feel _manageable_ , now; they don't feel like they could consume him at any moment.

Dream's out there, far away, and Tubbo's somewhere even farther, but for the first time in the last month, Tommy's not worried about them, for just a split second.

This time, Tommy cries from love.

**Author's Note:**

> *cracks knuckles*
> 
> ok so. Man!
> 
> i wrote this all in the space of one day. it's been. hella fucking cathartic actually. current canon is PAIN but it is Very Interesting, Well-Written Pain and i can't wait to see where everything goes. (i. i am begging, though. please slow down the plot dreamsmp gang.... it's going so fast....)
> 
> i have some other dsmp fics up, if you're interested! "this too shall pass" is one of my best works imo. it's an alternate ending after the finale. also, i have an au i'm working on where wilbur blows up l'manburg at the festival - that's called "apotheosis". 
> 
> (also also, i'm working on another fic that's techno and phil centric and is canon compliant, because i love them. that should be up within the next week or so hopefully.)
> 
> ok, end note ramble over!! thank you for reading!!! if you enjoyed, please please please feel free to leave a comment or kudos. i appreciate them so much. if you're reading this, i love you, and i hope you have a good day. <33


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